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(no subject)

One alley in Old Town is much like another. High, wet walls enclosing narrow streets, empty windows staring like blind eyes, uncaring, over the events below. The odd flicker of neon reflecting mirrored off the slick surfaces, adding garish highlights. Yellow pools of sodium lights, a perhaps surprisingly large number of the streetlamps un-broken, burning brightly in the night.

This particular alley is clean of trash, dirt swept away by the rain, litter cleared away. The girls will not tolerate their territory to be filthy. Human trash, though - the alley is visited by that tonight. A pair of men - boys, really, drunk and confident, breath steaming in the cool air, have a whore backed up against a wall. One of them is whispering in her ear, hand on her shoulder keeping her still, while the other leans against a lampost, grinning, all machismo and bravado and white teeth.

The whore shakes her head, and starts to slip out of the man's grip. He snarls, and slams her back against the wall, eyes hot and wet and angry. The whore's eyes, by contrast, are almost pitying, even as he back-hands her across the face, snapping her head sideways.

This is where it all goes wrong.

There is a disturbance in the air, rain seeming to fall around a patch of space, defining it for a moment not by what is there but by what is not, until the space is filled by two bodies.

The whore's eyes widen, as she looks over the man's shoulder.

Wednesday Morning, 3am.

Time passes. We know this for a fact.

The world spins on it's axis, as it revolves about the sun, as the galaxy spirals, as the universe expands.

Entropy continues it's gradual and inescapable progress towards final and total energy death, stars die, galaxies are born.

Somewhere, lost in it all, individual and insignificant human lives burn out their brief, bright flares, and are extinguished. One single human life. Utterly without moment, in the grand scheme of the cosmos, and yet, still time passes for that single spark just as truthfully as for the whole, magnificent universe.

***

( read on )

(no subject)

Outside is better than inside, even if it is cold and wet and grey. Miho's used to wet and grey, although cold is a little less common. Besides, it's different, and different is good. Less people, and if she sits in the right place, and faces away from the buildings, she can pretend that Milliways isn't there. Of course, it doesn't really matter, because it is there, and she still can't leave.

She can sit and stare out over the ruffled lake, though, and smoke, and pretend that the growing litter of cigarette butts around her feet doesn't attest to the fact that she has nowhere better to be.

Homeward Bound

Miho had headed blindly through the streets of Basin City, drawn inexorably towards the boundaries of Old Town. How she had made the journey, she'd never remember, recalling only the featureless streets, the glare of sodium lights on wet black tarmac. The slow trickle of blood down her back from freshly opened wounds, scabs cracking open from the slightest movement. The white shirt, lifted half-consciously from the back of a chair and draped around her, unbuttoned and held closed by bruised arms clutched across her stomach slowly darkening, a crimson stain spreading across the white fabric.

Bare feet had first been wet with water and mud, then with blood as her usual sure step had failed her, and in her unseeing stumble the debris of the streets had taken it's toll. The over-sized shirt had been more than enough to cover the little assassin's body from prying eyes, but still there must have been something that told the human predators to stay clear, for if she had been attacked she would not have been able to defend herself. As it was, her progress was unhindered, and she reached her destination no more damaged than when she had begun.

( read on )

The Sound of Silence

Miho had been right, when she'd assumed that her door would open onto the last place she'd been. She'd also been right when she'd figured that getting out of the compound would be equally easy. The men who were still living or, more to the point, those who were still ambulatory, were not in any sort of order. They weren't panicking, quite – they were far too well trained for that. They were not, though, as vigilant as usual.

A little stealth, and she'd made her way out of the compound, and headed, once again, for the garage. This time, speed being not so much of the essence, she'd taken a car, rather than one of the few remaining bikes. Her vanity had been unable to resist picking one of the flashier models – but then, they were a little faster, even if the armouring on some of the other vehicles had been sacrificed for the sake of looks. The windows were still bullet-proof, not that, as it turned out, that would have been necessary.

( read on )

Gym-time

The problem with working ut 'au natural', as it were, is the lack of resistance. Miho isn't much of a one for weights training, and her stretching routine uses nothing other than her own body, but every now and then it's nice to have something that will fight back. And, lacking an opponent, at least something that will resist. She assumes that the gardeners, and some of the other patrons, might have something to say if she started beating up the trees.

The gym, however, has punch bags. So, she's squared up against a heavy hanging bag, and a dull, fast

-thunk-

-thunk-

-thunk-

sounds out round the room. The bag quivers on its ropes, but it isn't going anywhere. She's fast, though, obscenely fast. And accurate. She has to remind herself that, unlike when she is sparring with the air, the bag cannot stand up to repeated hard blows on the excat same square inch of fabric.

It is possible to burst a punch bag. It's difficult, but it can be done. And she thinks that she might find herself rather unpopular if she covered the floor of the gym in stuffing. So she bounces lightly on the balls of her feet as she strikes, moving around the bag.

(no subject)

Miho's room is, indeed, much more personal than the last time Mary Anne saw it. It's still stark and white - white walls, white sheets and comforter on the low futon - but now there's also a deep pile rug (also white, of course), on the blonde floorboards, and an enormous and extremely comfortable (white) leather bean bag sofa with a coffee table in front of it.

A book-case at one end of the bean bag has an eclectic collection of books, graphic novels and movies, and there's a small (digital) sound system next to the television. A few half-finished projects are lying on a neat desk. In other words, she looks like she's moved in, not as if she expects to leave at any moment.

Room 111

It stopped working. The nightmares came wherever she slept, whoever she shared her bed with. It was so hard to stay silent. To swallow the scream, to creep silently from the bed and curl, dry-eyed, in the corner of a bathroom. To still her breathing, swallow back the nausea rising in her throat. Watch her hands slowly stop shaking, until the violent tremors had subsided to a bare quiver. Then to crawl back into the bed.

So she stopped trying.

She won't share a bed any more. No, that's not true. She'll still sleep next to Goldy. Or rather, curl up next to her, eyes open in the dark, one hand resting on the comfort of the other woman. Sometimes her fingers curled gently into golden locks. Sometimes her lips resting softly on her skin, so that all she can see is her. Not the shadows that creep at the edges of her vision. Not the dark things that want her to see them. Acknowledge them. Not the pressure there at the back of her mind, demanding she look at it, screaming at her to remember.

She won't make Goldy deal with her, be with her when she wakes, screaming, fighting something that isn't there. When she starts out of the bed, not knowing where she is, seeing not her room in Milliways, but white paper walls and dark wood. When she can't breathe can't think can't breathe can't move.

She'll sneak into her room, slide into the bed, wrap herself around the sleeping form, and just. . . be there.

She won't sleep. Won't sleep. Won't. . . .

Sleep.

Angels: Act Three

Back, they had to come back. No option, couldn't do anything else, besides her door is here what else can she do no other way back (home) to Milliways had to come couldn't stay away have to do this now. Now, not later, no later left, it's all now and now and now and now. This is hers to do not theirs she can't ask them to face (him) that, it's not their fight it's hers, her father her demons her hate her guilt.

Miho has been silent on the journey back out of Yokohama. Not that the other girls would have been able to tell, being on the other bike, but there had been no laughing to herself, no enjoying the ride, just. . . getting from one place to another.

They're at the complex, now.

Well, almost. They're still heading up the long drive, under the trees that arch over the road, their branches nearly touching overhead. Although it's stopped raining, their leaves are wet, and still drop the occasional heavy splat of water onto the two bikes, impacting with resounding smacks onto three black helmets and black-clad bodies.

The driveway disappears into the rising gloom, through the near-tunnel made by the trees, close to the sides of the narrow road. The overall effect is nothing short of foreboding.

How appropriate.

Angels: Act Two

from here

Yokohama.

Japan's biggest port city.

Hub of trade, export, and import.

Modern, classical, new and ancient. If a thing is new 'it was done first in Yokohama'.

It is late by the time the two bikes purr through the suburbs, heading for the heart of the financial district. Late, and the rain has stopped. The surfaces are slick with water, lights reflecting off anything and everything, a shifting kaleidoscope.

The buildings are an odd mix. Darkened office buildings, except for the odd window where a worker is up late into the night. Bars, restaurants, the odd shop, spill light and sound and smell out into the streets.

Eventually, Miho waves an arm, slows, and pulls over to the side of the road. She hops off, braces the bike, and smoothly uses her entire body-weight to lift it onto the stand. She pushes her visor up, and smiles.

"Well, this is it."

There are two buildings that stand out. One is rounded, almost like a tower, stabbing up into the night. Next to it, seperated by only a narrow alleyway, is a mirrored tower-block, curved frontage, glass elevators running up the outside of the building. It has an enourmous lobby, brightly lit, edged by small shops, and a few restaurants.

"That's the one we want," she says, pointing to the rounded building. "And this is the one I thought we could go across from."

She grins.

"Anyone for sushi?"

Angels: Act One.

The door opens onto a room, not small, not large. Bare, pale walls that could be made of paper, but aren't. There is a window, shuttered against the sun, pale light struggling weakly in to lie in stripes across the wooden floor.

The bed(futon) hasn't been made, white sheets tangled and draped half off onto the floor.

The only splash of colour in the room comes from a vase containing a single spray of yellow flowers, which sits atop a simple lacquered chest. Also atop the chest is a single, dog-eared book, titled 'Koshoku ichidai onna', and two small brown glass bottles, safety capped, labelled in japanese.

Miho steps noiselessly through the door, one finger to her lips, although of course she doesn't have to remind the others of the need for caution. She's all in her habitual black - soft jeans, well broken-in boots, tightly laced, the usual short-sleeved shirt and a loose kimono jacket over it all. There's a knife at each hip, and one at the small of her back. She has her forearm sheaths, as usual, and the bandolier of shuriken. There is a knife in each boot. No swords. Not. . . yet.

I can do this. It's not different than any other place. And I'm not alone. I don't have to be alone.

She raises her eyebrows to Goldy, and tilts her head to the door, a deceptively heavy affair, locked from outside.

The Nightmares She Doesn't Have Pt. 3.

Nightmares. Yes, now she might admit to nightmares. Why else would she wake herself screaming? But she can't deny them any more. Not when now she wakes drenched in cold sweat, every muscle in her body howling in protest. Not when most times now she wakes truly choking, and has to bolt from the bed for the bathroom, stomach clenched. She rarely eats enough now to throw up anything more than bile.

If she sleeps at all. She doesn't, if she can help it. She can go a few nights without sleep, and by then she's tired enough to sink into utterly dreamless blackness. Or she can share her bed. The right person next to her, and the dreams go away. The nightmares. If all else fails? The bourbon is still there.

She doesn't remember what she dreams.

Doesn't, can't, won't.

Will. Not

The Nightmares She Doesn't Have Pt 2.

Miho doesn't have nightmares. She doesn't. She doesn't wake up wide eyed and frozen in the small hours of the morning, muscles aching, jaw clenched against a scream.

If she did have nightmares, which she doesn't, she would tell you she doesn't know why. There can't be any reason for them. Nothing to cause the stifling weight she sometimes feels still upon her when she wakes. No reason to choke in her sleep and wake coughing and gagging.

If she spends half of the night sitting on her windowsill, chain-smoking and staring out at the lake, perhaps she's just not tired. Maybe she likes the view better when it's dark and empty. If there is a bottle of bourbon in her bedside cabinet, if when she's alone she takes a drink to send herself to sleep, why not? Nothing wrong with a night-cap, is there?

She doesn't have nightmares, though. No-one could say she does. No-one has ever heard her cry out, noticed the salty dampness on her pillow, seen her wake with a start and a gasp.

She doesn't have nightmares.

Unless she's alone.

Room 111

There's a curt knock at the door of room 111, before a key turns in the door, and Miho walks through, frowning. She glances around, then walks over to the bureau, heading for a neat pile of papers stacked on top of it. She leafs through the papers, finds what she was looking for, then turns on her heel to exit the room.

A sound catches her ear.

"Goldy?"

The nightmares she doesn't have.

Miho doesn't have nightmares. How can she, when she doesn't remember her dreams? She would admit to odd dreams, perhaps, if she was pressed. She would say they were strange, not that they were nightmares. That she doesn't remember them, which is true. That her dreams are her business, anyway.

She probably wouldn't say that she's sleeping less. She might admit that she's not eating properly, but only if confronted with it.

She would say it's guilt. She would say that breaking that promise to Eddie, letting him turn into a monster, keeps her awake at night. It does, that's true. She hates to break a promise, and is still scheming ways to keep that particular one.

However.

Guilt is one thing. The dreams are another. She doesn't know why, but carefully constructed walls in her mind have been slowly starting to crumble. Tampering with someone's mind is a terrible thing. And when the mind is in such delicate balance, the smallest alteration can have truly catastrophic consequences.

Eventually. For now, Miho doesn't have nightmares. Just some unpleasant dreams.

Outside, by the lake

Miho is perched on a sun-warmed rock, working with files and cloths and emery powder on a blade. A small knife, this time. Very small. Very sharp. Completely deadly.

Training Montage?

Outside by the lake, barefoot, gritty soil between her toes. She barely notices, except in a vague way, noting that the traction is good. Eyes closed. Each movement gradual, controlled. Graceful, almost balletic. The total muscle control moving so slowly and yet precisely requires would only be appreciated by a few.

With each iteration she speeds up. Faster and faster each time, until her form is blurred.

There is only one set of footprints.

Room 111

(shortly after this.)

Miho eyes Goldy's door for a moment, before kicking it gently. She would knock, but her hands are full. Pizza in one, bottle of JD in the other. The wirekitty is perched on her shoulder carefully holding a tub of ice-cream.

"Could you let me in?"

Miho's Room

(OOC: from here)

Miho pushes open the door, and backs into the room, smiling, eyes dark. There is a tiny drop of blood on her lower lip, and she licks it off, red tongue flickering briefly.

The room is sparse, the main piece of furniture being a huge futon in the middle of the room, low posts at it's corners. The window is open, but the room is only pleasantly cool. There's an ashtray and a crumpled soft-pack on the windowsill, but those are the only signs of clutter.

"Coming in?"

Mary Anne's Machete

She opens the door, bowing in a thoroughly exaggerrated fashion.

"After you, my dear."